As Normal as It Gets
(Sunday, November 29, 2015)
From the Journals of Dipper Pines (In his Vigenère Cipher #44, keyword turkey):We packed into Mom's RAV4 a few minutes ago. After breakfast, we said our goodbyes to Soos and his family, our Grunkles and Graunties, Teek, Candy, Grenda, and . . . Wendy. Right now, Mom and Dad are lingering on the front porch of the Shack, talking to our Grunkles and their wives.
Our chances of coming up for the week after Christmas look about fifty-fifty. Mom seems satisfied that we behaved ourselves, and we mostly did (maybe she'll never learn of Mabel and what we'll call the noodle incident in the theater last Sunday. I think the theater management and Blubs and Durland are all stumped.)
And she didn't hear about the recent anomalies, either. Monday we had weird weather. A rain of forks. Literally. Maybe it was supposed to be a rain of frogs, but maybe it was too cold, or maybe whoever's in charge of these paranormal events just can't spell. Anyhow, the forks were cheap aluminum, and they got gathered up pretty quickly. Soos snagged a few dozen for display in the Museum.
Then Tuesday at noon, a Manotaur—I don't know which one, I didn't recognize him—streaked through downtown without his breechclout. He kept yelling, "Look away! I'm only doing this for a dare!"
However, nowadays everyone has a smart phone, and lots of people got photos. I heard that some of the teen girls in Yumburgers were passing one very clear close-up shot around and gasping and giggling at what they saw. I didn't look. Do not want to see that sort of thing again (I once went hot-tubbing with them, and I still have nightmares). The fleeting glimpse I had of this one's upper torso and face were enough, thank you.
Mabel did look at the photo, though, and later she hit me on the shoulder. "Bro of mine, you still got a long ways to go before you can call yourself Manly Mannington!" she teased.
I did not dignify her remark with a reply, and I won't let it bother me.
But thinking of that reminds me: Waddles and Widdles are now huge. I mean, full-grown hogs! Mabel visited with them, and they obviously remember her and are fond of her, but they can't exactly cuddle any longer. Still, she had an enjoyable time riding them around the yard.
Grunkle Stan says he's afraid something has happened to Gompers the goat, who has been missing for a couple of weeks. There are predators in the Valley, so—who knows? However, I promised him that if we get to come back at Christmas break, I'll investigate the case and see if I can find Gompers, or at least learn what became of him.
"Yeah, kid," he said, "that would be such a big favor."
He didn't sound completely sincere.
Long story short, in Gravity Falls it's about as normal as it ever gets. And after Mom and Dad came up late Wednesday afternoon, luckily the abnormalities sort of trailed off. I'm glad nothing came up to disturb them.
Anyway, Mom seemed happier than she was in the week before Mabel and I left for the Falls. My regret is that once we got here (thanks for meeting us at the airport, Wendy!), the time we had just flew by.
OK, that party yesterday. Caught me completely by surprise. Wendy and I went running, even though it was really cold. I mean it was literally freezing! And I hadn't brought particularly warm running togs, but I wore jeans and Mabel lent me one of her thick sweaters, a red one that she hadn't yet appliqued anything on, so it wasn't girly.
Wendy and I ran more slowly than normal because I had to get used to the chilly air. We ran the nature trail—sort of sad to see how leafless and bare the trees are, and there was frost on the ground, too. No ice on Moon Trap Pond, and the local lore says it never freezes over, no matter how cold it gets. When Cold Creek is solid ice top to bottom, Moon Trap is still clear, still, blue, and un-iced. It's a mystery if true. If Mabel and I do get to come back the week after Christmas, and if it's very cold, Wendy and I are going to go check and see. But we won't get too close. One underwater dance with Numina is enough for us.
We rounded Moon Trap and the Lonely Man standing stone, and afterward, once we were warmed up, we walked at a good clip on the way back.
Because I wanted to, we took a short side trip to the place where Bill Cipher's effigy still stands. It was bristling with frost on the shady side. I didn't sense him—but if we're all correct in our assumptions, he's reincarnated now as Billy Sheaffer, so that's no surprise. I guess the last non-Billy part of Bill is the little trace of him inside me. Creepy thought.
Anyhow, Wendy and I came back to the Shack, and Mabel and Soos had set up all these displays of photos, mostly of me, in the big parlor, and they all yelled "Surprise!" And Abuelita and Melody had prepared this fantastic brunch spread. And Grunkle Stan had a print-out of this morning's National Times best-seller list, and Bride of the Zombie is still at number one, though Manny Dee, the Manic-Depressive Elf has crept up to number two. It's a Christmas book, so probably next week it'll hold down the number one spot.
I said that to Wendy, and Grunkle Ford overheard me. He put his big hand on my shoulder. "Mason," he said seriously, "think about this: I did some checking, and every year about sixty thousand novels are published by mainstream American publishers. Care to guess how many are submitted?"
"I . . . don't know," I said.
"Six hundred thousand. Ninety per cent of all aspiring authors don't get an acceptance. Now, of the ten percent who do get a book published with a commercial press, how many wind up with their book at a number one spot of the National Times Book Review?"
I thought about that. Fifty-two Book Reviews in a year. Each one lists hardcover adult fiction, softcover and ebook adult fiction (combined), hardcover genre fiction (Mysteries, Westerns, science-fiction, fantasy), softcover and ebook ditto, and finally Children's and YA book-length fiction. Five categories. So—"Uh, a maximum of two hundred and sixty writers a year," I said.
"Les than one-half of one per cent," Grunkle Ford said, patting my shoulder. "Congratulations, nephew, for being part of the distinguished .433 per cent of American fiction writers!"
Later, I told Wendy that Grunkle Ford had helped me come to terms with what she calls the impostor syndrome. "When I think of all those thousands of writers who don't get published, I feel—well, sort of sorry for them. And when I think I not only was lucky enough to get my first novel published, but it's a success—I guess I did something sort of special, after all."
"'Cause you ARE special, dork!" she said, laughing. And right in front of Mom and everybody, she kissed me. On the cheek, very lightly, like a big sister might do. And I got a flash of our touch telepathy—Preview of coming attractions, Dip!
Oh, yeah. Man, we better come back right after Christmas. I have something to look forward to.
Finally Dad's driving, and we're on the road for home, heading toward the spot where the highway leaves the Valley, directly under the split cliffs of High Bluffs. The town has taken down the old railroad bridge, because it was falling to pieces and getting to be a hazard. But Grunkle Stan showed me something the Gravity Falls Gossiper ran back in October: an artist's conception of the new welcome sign that should be up by next June. It's going to replace the old bridge, and its metal and will look almost like it, but will be stronger and will have the words WELCOME TO GRAVITY FALLS in red letters on the side facing the outside world.
And we just this second passed the sign that always makes me sad:
NOW LEAVING GRAVITY FALLS
Yep, I guess we are. But Mom's singing a song along to the radio, one of those oldie-goldie hits from the nineties, and she seems very happy and is snuggled next to Dad.
A smiling, sighing Mabel is leaning on my shoulder and probably will be asleep and drooling in about five minutes.
Knowing Dad's driving, at least twelve hours on the road. By nine tonight we should be back home in Piedmont.
Seems like I've done this before. Felt this sad before.
Once again, we're leaving Gravity Falls, but with a little bit of luck—
We will be back soon.
Until then, I'm going to miss you so much, Lumberjack Girl. Until then, Magic Girl. Dare I say it? Until then . . . Red!
Seriously, I can't wait to be back again, Wendy.
Can't wait.
The End